<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Yesterday's Songs by pennilesspoet</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25658224">Yesterday's Songs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennilesspoet/pseuds/pennilesspoet'>pennilesspoet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Pandemic Verse [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>COVID-19, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pandemic - Freeform, Quarantine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:48:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25658224</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennilesspoet/pseuds/pennilesspoet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A more melancholy look at David and Patrick during quarantine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Pandemic Verse [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Yesterday's Songs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueIllusion/gifts">TrueIllusion</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>David hadn’t intended to fall asleep in the hammock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d come out here with the best of intentions; to finish his book while Patrick was out on his run, and then together they would figure out what to do with the overabundance of beet greens they’d pulled from the garden this morning. He supposes he could sauté them with some garlic and onions - they’d pair nicely with the leftover roast chicken and the sourdough bread Patrick had made yesterday.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All things considered, he feels like he and Patrick are handling the quarantine well. They started the garden soon after they’d moved into the cottage and are seeing the fruits of their labor now. The store is thriving online, and Patrick has been adamant that they set specific hours for online order fulfillment so that they have adequate leisure time. They’ve had a frankly scandalous amount of sex. David feels like things really could be worse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A cool breeze whispers across the backyard, and David shivers, even in his chunky ivory cable knit cardigan. It’s then that he realizes how late it must be; Patrick should be home by now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stumbles out of the hammock with all the grace of a newborn fawn, thankful that nobody, especially his troll of a husband, is there to see it. Gathering his book, sunglasses, and iced tea tumbler, he heads back into the house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Patrick?” he calls as he enters, though it’s clear from the stillness of the house that his husband is not back yet. He checks his phone for messages. Finding none, he shoots a quick<em> “Where are u?"</em> to Patrick, and then sets about the task of starting dinner. He pulls the chicken out of the fridge, and starts to clean the beet greens. Ten minutes later, he’s received no reply from Patrick - not unusual, as he often won’t reply mid-run, but he should have been home half an hour ago. Concern begins to creep in, along with his ever-present anxiety, and he cannot help the slideshow of worst-case scenarios that fill his mind. He dries his hands and picks up his phone, finds Patrick’s number, and hits the call button. When it goes straight to voicemail, David takes three deep breaths to calm himself down, and makes his way to the front door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>~@~</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long to drive a lap around Schitt’s Creek. David knows the path Patrick tends to run, and he follows that path with his car. In the meantime, he futility tries calling Patrick twice more. It’s on his second lap around town that he finally sees him, perched on the dilapidated wooden bleachers at the baseball park.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun has begun to set, and the sky is lit up in a brilliant canopy of pastels. The light shines rose-gold on his husband’s face as he approaches. Lost in thought, Patrick doesn’t seem to notice David. He’s hunched in on himself, elbows on his knees, hands folded, still as a statue as he gazes out at the empty baseball field. David moves into his line of sight, and Patrick blinks back to life with a start.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David, what-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is your phone off?” David cuts him off shortly. He’s relieved that Patrick is okay, and he’s not really </span>
  <em>
    <span>mad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but he doesn’t have the energy to cover his frustration that Patrick ignored his calls while he was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>sitting here</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think so,” Patrick slides his phone out of his pocket and attempts to bring it to life. “I guess the battery is dead. I’m sorry David - what time is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David wants to ask <em>why</em> Patrick’s phone is dead - he knows for a fact that his husband is meticulous about plugging in his devices before bed every night. Instead, he steps closer and takes in the way the fading sun highlights the dark circles under Patrick’s eyes and the frown lines around his mouth. Deciding that now is not the time to berate himself for not picking up on all of this earlier, David climbs up the bleachers and settles next to Patrick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s almost dinner time. Were you out here thinking about baseball?” David tries for a lighter tone, and a less invasive question, with the hope that Patrick will open up on his own. It doesn’t always work, but he knows that asking him directly about his feelings will sometimes cause Patrick to close up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick sighs and looks back out over the field. David runs a hand up and down his back, but doesn’t push.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was just...missing the league games. And missing chatting with people at the store or cafe. It feels sometimes like all of this is never ending, and we’ll never get to have those things again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We will. It might - well, it might not be <em>exactly</em> the same, but we will get back to some semblance of normal soon. And then eventually they’ll find a vaccine, and this will all be a distant memory.” David says out loud the things he often has to tell himself, with the hope that it will help now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. I just-sorry, I <em>do</em> know. I think sometimes I just let things get to me, and I always hope these evening runs will help, but sometimes they don’t.” Patrick looks down at his folded hands, and David sees him shiver. The sun is mostly gone now - they should head home. He peels off his cardigan and wraps it around Patrick as he circles his arms around him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to apologize - but you know that when things are getting to you, you can talk to me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Patrick curls into David’s chest with a sigh,”I just don’t want you to have to worry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well then you might want to keep your phone charged when you go out on these exercise excursions of yours,” David replies teasingly. He feels Patrick chuckle and smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on,” David says as he pulls them both to standing, “Let’s go home; I’m fucking starving.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay David,” Patrick laughs. He threads his arms into David’s sweater as he leads David back down the bleachers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’re just going to keep that sweater?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm, yes, it smells like you,” Patrick turns and looks up at David with a genuine smile. David slides an arm around Patrick’s shoulder and lets him curl into him as they make their way back to the car.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dinner. Then maybe one of the superhero movies that Patrick loves and David pretends to hate (the eye candy keeps him plenty entertained). David will wrap his arms around his husband as they fall asleep together, and tomorrow, they’ll get up and do it all over again. And it will all be okay.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>